Hardbingers rj-10 Page 14

  Davis leaned back and sighed. "Not a lot, I guess." He shook his head. "The borders are sieves."

  "You think that's the way the Otherness is going? Terrorism?"

  A shrug. "Anything that causes terror strengthens the Adversary." He leaned forward again. "And don't forget, this isn't just about America. Terrorism anywhere—Ireland, Iraq, Malaysia—is all food for the Adversary."

  "Well then, don't you think that explosion tonight is causing its share of terror?" He nodded toward the TV. "That feed is going nationwide."

  Davis nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Miller is—"

  "A menace. Something wrong with that guy—sick bad wrong. He's got a piece missing."

  "Yeah, but he's loyal and fearless."

  "So's Zeklos, but he's being sent to Idaho."

  Davis's gaze shifted. "Zek isn't exactly fearless."

  "Yeah? How so?"

  "Let's leave it at that."

  Jack could respect that. He leaned back as the waitress brought them fresh beers. He didn't feel like talking about tonight anymore.

  "Okay," he said when she was gone, "honest now: Do you think Miller will ever accept me—not as the Heir, just my presence?"

  "Well, he feels only yenigeri should be in the MV."

  "That doesn't answer my question. Will he ever accept me?"

  After a long pause, Davis shook his head. "Maybe when they stop rerunning / Love Lucy."'

  That pretty much said it all. Jack turned to a couple of questions that had popped up during the day.

  "Do you guys, you yenieeri, have any lives?"

  Davis nodded. "Yeah. It's called Militia Vigilum."

  "I mean outside of that."

  "You mean a home away from Home. Wife? Kids?" He shook his head. "Forbidden. No Ozzie and Harriet scene. Not even a girlfriend. The MV is all the family we need or get."

  Jack couldn't see how that was possible.

  "You mean you're some sort of monastic order?"

  "In a way. But not celibate."

  "You said no girlfriends."

  Davis smiled. "We're an ancient order, and we take our comfort from a profession even more ancient."

  "But how do you spend your free time? I get the feeling it's not fasting and meditation."

  "We play cards and checkers and chess while we're on duty. I've become a pretty decent chess player. Want to play sometime?"

  Davis's wistful tone prompted a little epiphany: This man was lonely. He'd sacrificed just about everything so he could devote himself to saving the world. Something to be said for that kind of dedication, that sacrifice, that singleness of purpose. Jack had met some rabid environmentalists who thought they were saving the world, but at least they had real lives on the side.

  Jack felt for Davis, but not enough to take up chess again.

  "Sorry. Gave it up."

  His eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding. It's a wonderful game."

  "Don't have the patience for it."

  Jack had learned that he was too reckless, too impulsive to be a good chess player. Could last only so long before his patience ran out and he started making crazy moves—anything to get a little action going and break the game open. All the care and detail he put into his fix-its deserted him on the chessboard. Maybe it was a matter of real life versus a game. If he gave into impulses on a fix-it, his skin was at stake; in chess, only some little chunks of wood.

  "What else do you do?" he said. "Besides put out fires?"

  "We track the Adversary. Sometimes that involves putting out fires, sometimes starting them."

  "How so?"

  "Well, for instance, in sixty-four A.D. we fought the great Rome fire alongside the official Militia Vigilum. That was when we started thinking of ourselves as a different sort of MV. We'd tracked the Adversary to Rome. To this day we're sure he started the fire, simply to feed on the chaos. But he wound up with a bonus when Nero blamed the Christians and started throwing them to the lions."

  "But what about starting fires?"

  "The library at Alexandria—we burned that because the Adversary's followers were secretly gathering a collection of dangerous texts there."

  Jack wondered if the Compendium of Srem had been among them.

  "But those were the old days," Davis said. "Now we watch a lot of TV. Too much, I think."

  Jack remembered his references to Lucy, Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet, and Leave It to Beaver, so he took a stab.

  "Let me guess: TV Land."

  Davis's eyes widened. "You psychic? Or is that something else you learn in Heir school?"

  Jack smiled and shrugged. "Tell me this: Can you quit the MV?"

  Davis smirked. "Obviously they don't teach you everything in Heir school."

  "Can you?"

  Davis shook his head. "Nope."

  Jack didn't buy that.

  "You expect me to believe that after all this time, all these centuries—"

  "Millennia."

  "—not one person has quit? Come on. Somebody must have."

  "Have you ever read an expose of the MV or the yeniceri, or even a news story hinting at our existence?"

  Jack hadn't.

  "Nobody has ever quit? Not even one disgruntled ex-member wandering around?"

  Davis's face was a mask. "You are either loyal to the yenigeri code, or you are not."

  "And what if you're not?"

  "Then you are… not." He blinked and shrugged. "But let's talk about something else. As I said, I'm sorry about tonight. But I like the way you handle yourself. Next time we go out—"

  "Not going to be a next time."

  Davis stared at him. "What? You can't be serious."

  "Dead serious. This isn't going to work. Call me anal, but I like doing things, my way. I do not like other people making decisions for me, even if they mean well, even if our goals are in tune. How I score is as important as the scoring."

  "Look. I'll see to it that you never get teamed with Miller again. I can—"

  Jack held up a hand. "Won't matter. It simply isn't going to work."

  Davis leaned so far over the table he looked as if he were going to climb on it.

  "This isn't about you, Jack. It's about everybody. I'm sorry your sensibilities took a beating tonight, but this is too important to let your ego get in the way."

  "Nothing to do with ego."

  "Then what? We're in the fight of our lives and we're losing. Every day the Otherness encroaches just a little bit more. Each little increment doesn't seem like much at the time, but if you look back you can see how far it's come. Stalin used the tactic in Eastern Europe. He called it 'salami slicing.' In other words, if you grab the whole salami, there'll be hell to pay. But filch a slice at a time and it's barely noticed; and even if it is, no one gets too upset. But keep on niching those slices and eventually you'll have—"

  "The whole salami. I know."

  "That's what the Otherness is up to. And it's winning. You know why? Because it's more motivated. The Ally doesn't eat salami, it wants it simply because owning it is part of winning. But the Otherness loves salami—it doesn't just want us, it needs us. It'll feed on the negative emotions it can create once it takes over."

  "Well, your pal Miller served up some snacks tonight."

  "But it would have been so much worse if we hadn't stopped them. And say what you want about Miller, he's out there sweating in the firebreaks, doing whatever's necessary to keep the Otherness from spreading."

  "That doesn't excuse—"

  "We need you, Jack. We've been falling apart since we lost the Twins. Tonight was a perfect example. Miller wouldn't have dreamed of pulling that stunt if the Twins were still around. We need a new center. You—the Heir—you can provide that. You can get us back on track."

  Jack felt the walls closing in. Davis was right about the Otherness winning—he felt it in his bones—and the importance of keeping it at bay, but he'd hated tonight. And yet, he wanted access to t
he Oculus to keep tabs on the big picture.

  Things had been so much easier before he'd heard of these people.

  He fished out a twenty and threw it on the table as he rose.

  "I'll think about it. I'll be away on some business for a while. I'll contact you when I get back. Maybe."

  He didn't give Davis a chance to reply.

  MONDAY

  1

  Jack awoke to the blather of 880 AM, one of the city's all-news radio stations.

  Last night, after checking his street to see if the mysterious stranger was hanging around—he wasn't—he'd turned on the radio and fallen asleep listening. He'd awakened a few times during the night but heard no mention of new explosions.

  Same thing this morning.

  So far so good. But the morning was still young.

  No one was commenting yet on exactly what had exploded and who might have been killed. And no word about an apartment in Bay Ridge. The feds were playing it silent and savvy.

  He checked his clock. Not quite six yet. Manhattan's rush hour wouldn't be in full swing for another hour or so. Still time for terror to start.

  Yeah, they'd blown one group of cockroaches and their stash to hell, but he couldn't help worrying: What if more than one cell was involved? And what if that other cell had its own stash? Were they saving it for another day or were they planning to use it this morning in a two-pronged, coordinated attack? Compound the terror with a second strike?

  That was why he'd wanted to feed the slimy bastards to the feds. But goddamn Miller…

  He should have called the feds the instant he saw the drums of Semtex.

  Screw the team approach.

  Then again, if not for the Oculus and the MV, he never would have known about the plot.

  He hated this.

  He showered, got dressed, then went out. Not too cold. He decided to walk over to Gia's instead of grabbing a cab. Wanted to get a feel for the mood of the city. The Staten Island explosion, located as it had been in a storage facility, had terrorist written all over it.

  He saw a lot of wary faces along the way. Not worried, not frightened, just… cautious. Be a whole different story if subways and bridges and tunnels started blowing up.

  Which was why he was headed to Gia's. It was early, yeah, but he wanted to be with her and Vicks if bombs went off.

  2

  Jack had an idea as he watched Gia zip up Vicky's blue winter coat before taking her to wait for the school bus.

  "Hey, why don't we give Vicky the day off and the three of us go out for breakfast?"

  Vicky's blue eyes lit. "Yeah! Pancakes!"

  Gia didn't look up as she wrapped a red-and-white striped scarf around her daughter's neck.

  "Skip school? We need an occasion for that."

  "How about my last day in town for a while?"

  Now she looked up at him. "You mean…?"

  He hadn't had a chance to tell her yet; had planned to as soon as Vicky was gone, but the thought of Vicky on a bus this morning gave him a crawly feeling in his gut. He didn't want either of them out of his sight.

  He nodded. "Abe says everything is ready."

  Her face fell. "Oh."

  "I thought you'd be happy."

  "I did too."

  "Where you going, Jack?" Vicky looked worried. "To Shangri-la like you said?"

  Jack had told her that last month when he'd thought he was going somewhere with no road back. This time it was to a boat slip in a Fort Lauderdale marina. He planned to stop by Abe's later this morning for the exact address.

  "This is a lot closer, Vicks. Florida. And it's not for long. Less than a week."

  She grinned and jumped up and down. "Can I go? Can we all go to Disney World?"

  "Maybe in the spring," Gia said as Jack helped her rise to standing.

  "But I wanna go now! It's hot all the time there, isn't it? I can go swimming!"

  Jack wondered how an offer for breakfast had turned into a trip to Disney World. Things happened so fast with kids.

  "How about breakfast first?" He looked at Gia. "She gets straight A's, so one day of hooky won't matter. Please?"

  Gia shrugged. "Why not? We'll make it a family breakfast." She patted her swelling tummy. "All four of us."

  "Great. Where?"

  "How about Kosher Nosh?"

  "Again?"

  She patted her tummy again. "Baby wants lox."

  Though something of a vegetarian—she'd eat eggs—Gia had added fish to her diet during the pregnancy.

  "Then Kosher Nosh it is."

  The small deli-restaurant up on Second Avenue was only a few blocks away, so they walked.

  "I still don't get this kosher thing," Jack said as they ambled west on 58th. "How'd this happen?"

  She shrugged and lapsed into Abe's accent. "You want I should explain taste? I'm talking apricot ruggalach, poppy-seed twists, onion bialys. What's not to like?"

  Jack laughed. "Hey, that's good. You could move to Boro Park. The weird thing is, Abe was raised in an orthodox home and he won't touch the stuff."

  Gia gave him a dubious look. "You mean there's something Abe won't eat?"

  "That's what he says."

  "So if I put a cheese blintz in front of him he wouldn't eat it?"

  "Well, I guess he'd make an exception for that."

  Kosher Nosh had an old-time luncheonette look, with Formica-topped tables and chrome napkin dispensers. They took a table near the back. A harried, scowling, middle-aged waitress brought them menus. A younger woman usually waited this table.

  "Where's Aviva?" Gia said.

  The waitress ran a hand through her hair. "Didn't show up."

  She took their drink orders—coffee, tea, and milk—then hustled away.

  Vicky made a face. "She's not very nice."

  "She's overloaded today, hon," Gia said. "Take it from someone who's waited her share of tables. You can get frazzled."

  Jack felt a warm glow as he watched mother and daughter study their menus. Two years ago, this situation, these feelings would have been unimaginable.

  "They still don't have bacon," Vicky said.

  She had a way to go before she grasped the kosher thing. Jack knew a little, but it still made no sense to him.

  "Oh, look," Gia said. "Here's something I haven't tried: sauerkraut pierogies."

  Jack grimaced. "For breakfast?"

  "Hey, I'm pregnant. That means I get a special dispensation from the rules." She put down her menu and looked at him. "I can't read you this morning, Jack. What are you feeling?"

  "I'm feeling I don't want to see someone eating sauerkraut pierogies for breakfast."

  "Seriously."

  He thought about that.

  "I feel strange. Really strange. Like I'm giving up the real me, but the real me is really someone else. So I'm really giving up the fake me who's become more real than the real me. That make any sense?"

  "From anyone else, no—I'd think you'd been smoking something. But from you? Perfect sense."

  The waitress returned, pencil poised over her pad.

  "Figured it out yet?"

  "I'll have the sauerkraut pierogies," Gia said.

  "Boiled or fried?"

  "What's the difference?"

  The waitress deadpanned her. "One's boiled, one's fried."

  Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. On any other day he might have been annoyed, but no bombs had gone off this morning, so a grumpy waitress was something of a joy.

  "I'll have the boiled," Gia said. Then she looked at him and laughed. "Don't you love this place?"

  3

  Jack couldn't bring himself to go back to LaGuardia, and the Ashe brothers were both booked for charters, so he decided to fly Spirit out of Atlantic City. A longer drive than to Kennedy, but lots more scenic. And he was in no hurry.

  Last year's flight to Florida—the first and only commercial flight in his adult life—had convinced him that his fake ID could pass muster with airport secu
rity, so he approached this flight with a lot more confidence than the last. But the prospect of getting tagged still gave him the willies.

  He'd stopped by the Isher where Abe made a big deal of bidding a sad farewell to Repairman Jack—"I'd say a kaddish but I don't remember the words"—before giving him the marina address. Then Jack powered up the Crown Vic and headed south. He wore his yeniceri shades. He liked their clarity, and their wraparound style.

  AC International proved hassle free. He had no trouble parking. The identity check at the ticket purchase counter—one way to Fort Lauderdale, please—gave him a few moments of anxiety, but no problem. The line at the security checkpoint was short and efficient. He felt much calmer going through than the previous time—not carrying a concealed weapon this trip might have had something to do with that.

  Being weaponless, especially on a plane, gave him a naked feeling. Not helpless, just naked.

  With half an hour to go before his flight, he checked his voice mail and found a message from his brother-in-law, Ron, asking Jack to call him.

  Ron Iverson, MD, was Jack's sister Kate's ex-husband. They'd met only once, at Dad's funeral, and that hadn't been pleasant. He'd never forgiven Jack for missing Kate's funeral. Not a bad guy. And since Jack had never explained why he hadn't been there—he'd loved Kate and if there had been any way on Earth he could have made it, he would have—Ron had a right to his anger.

  This was the first time he'd ever called Jack. Had to be something important.

  Curious, Jack punched in the number Ron had left. After some stiff obligatory pleasantries, Ron got down to business.

  "Look, Jack. I know you're not interested in family matters but your father's estate needs settling."

  "Oh, man…" *

  "Not for me," he added quickly. "Kate's third goes to Kevin and Lizzie and their college funds are already in good shape. I'm in no hurry, but Tom's wives… I've got to tell you, Jack, your brother married three doozies."

  "So I've been told."

  Tom had called them the Skanks from Hell.

  "Well, let me tell you, ever since they discovered your father's net worth—surprised the hell out of me, too—they've been all over me to contact you and settle the estate so they can get their hands on the cash and divvy up the proceeds from selling the place in Florida."